‘And now,’ Edgar thought enthusiastically as he rode down in the lift, ‘I’m for the Black Eagle. And I’m going to order the veprová kýta pcene.’ This dish, ‘roast leg of pork’, was so popular he’d even come across a description of it in a fantasy magazine he’d read once.
As he waited for his order, Edgar took small mouthfuls of his second mug of beer (he’d drunk the first one Russian-style, straight down, evoking a nod of approval from the waiter), and tried to focus on his thoughts. But something was preventing him. Or someone.
Edgar looked and saw Anton Gorodetsky who was standing near the table and staring steadily at him.
Edgar shuddered, thinking he must have been followed. But there was a puzzled expression in Gorodetsky’s eyes too and Edgar breathed a sigh of relief. A coincidence, nothing more than a coincidence.
And what’s more, there weren’t any places left. Except at Edgar’s table.
Acting on a sudden impulse, Edgar nodded to the Light One and said:
‘Sit down. I’m having a break. You should too – to hell with all this work!’
Anton hesitated and Edgar thought he was going to leave, but then he decided to stay. He walked over and sat down opposite Edgar, giving him a sullen look, as if he found it hard to believe that all his old enemy wanted to do was relax for a while. What was that saying the Light Ones had? Anyone you’ve fought with once is an enemy for ever.
Nonsense. Fanaticism. Edgar preferred a more flexible approach – if today it was advantageous to ally your self with someone you hurled Shahab’s Lash at yesterday, why not do so? But then, after Shahab’s Lash there isn’t usually anybody left to conclude an alliance with. Ashes don’t make much of an ally.
‘And not a word about the Watches?’ Anton asked ironically.
‘Not a word,’ Edgar confirmed. ‘Just two fellow-countrymen in Prague before Christmas. I’ve ordered the veprová kýta pcene I recommend it.’
‘Thanks, I know it,’ said Anton, still without a shadow of a smile, turning to the waiter.
These Europeans had no idea what a real frost was, a real winter. As Anton came out of the Malostranská metro station, he wondered if he ought to button up the collar of his jacket, but he didn’t bother. Snowy weather, but there was no bite to it. Two degrees below zero at the most.
He set off along the street, strolling at a leisurely pace across the ancient cobblestones. Sometimes he gave in to curiosity and dropped into the souvenir shops – amusing wooden toys, curiously shaped ceramics, photographs with views of Prague, T-shirts with witty slogans. He ought to buy something, after all. Just to make his mark, so to speak. Maybe that T-shirt with the funny face on it and the words ‘Born to be Wild’.
There was almost three hours to go before he was due to meet the Inquisition’s representative. He didn’t even need to take a taxi or the metro – he could have a long lunch and stroll over on foot. A rendezvous under the clock tower – what could be more romantic? What if the Inquisition’s representative turned out to be a woman, maybe even attractive, and a Light One? Then romance would really be in the air.
Anton laughed at his own thoughts. He hadn’t the slightest desire to play the field or start an affair. And anyway, the concepts of ‘Light’ and ‘Dark’ didn’t apply to the Inquisition. It stood beyond the two great powers.
But maybe the concept of gender did apply? As far as Anton knew, when Maxim, the Light Magician from Moscow, the one they’d nicknamed the Maverick, became an Inquisitor he had divorced his wife.[2] Apparently inquisitors simply lost interest in all that petty human stupidity – love, sex, jealousy.
The Black Eagle was one of Anton’s favourite restaurants in Prague. Maybe that was simply because he’d been there a few times the first time he was in the city. It doesn’t take much to make a Russian happy, after all. Good, unobtrusive service, fine food, excellent beer, low prices – last but not least. Only the Dark Ones can afford to throw their money around. Even Rogoza, that creation of the Twilight, had appeared in Moscow loaded down with dollars. It was possible to earn money honestly but to earn a lot of money – you could never do that without compromising your conscience a little. And when it came to that, the Night Watch was definitely at a disadvantage compared to the Day Watch.
The street Anton was walking along divided into two, like a river, leaving a number of old, low buildings forming a long, narrow island along its centre – most of them restaurants and souvenir shops. The Black Eagle was the first in the row.
As he walked into the small courtyard, Anton saw a Light Other.
Not a member of any Watch. Just an Other who preferred an almost ordinary, almost human life to the front line of magical war. A tall, handsome, middle-aged man with a good figure, in the uniform of a US Air Force officer. He was leaving the restaurant, obviously feeling quite contented with his time there, with his girlfriend – a pretty Czech girl – and with himself.
He didn’t spot Anton straight away – he was too absorbed in conversation. But when he did, he gave him a broad, beaming smile.
There was nothing else for it – Anton raised his shadow from the snow-covered cobblestones and stepped into the Twilight. Silence fell, all sound was muffled in cotton-wool. The world slowed and lost its colours. People’s auras shimmered into life, like rainbows – most of them calm and peaceful, not overloaded with unnecessary thoughts. The way it ought to be in a tourist spot.
‘Greetings, Watchman!’ the American hailed him happily. Here in the Twilight there were no problems with language.
‘Hello, Light One,’ Anton replied. ‘Glad to see you.’
‘The Prague Watch?’ the American queried. He’d read the Watchman’s aura, but not made out the details. But then, he was a pretty weak magician. Somewhere around sixth grade, and with a strong attachment to natural magic. There wouldn’t have been anything for him to do in the Watch anyway. Except maybe sit somewhere out of the way and keep an eye on witches and shape-shifters whose powers were as weak as his own.
‘Moscow.’
‘Oh, the Moscow Watch!’ There was a clear note of respect in the American’s voice now. ‘A powerful Watch. Allow me to shake your hand.’
They shook hands. The American airman seemed to regard the encounter as one more element of a pleasant evening.
‘Captain Christian Vano ver Jr. Sixth-grade magician. Do you need my assistance, Watchman?’ The formal proposal was made with all due seriousness.
‘Thank you, Light One, but I don’t require any assistance,’ Anton replied no less politely.
‘On vacation?’ Christian asked.
‘No. A business trip. But no assistance required.’
The American nodded:
‘This is my Christmas vacation. My unit’s stationed in Kosovo, so I decided to visit Prague.’
‘Good choice,’ said Anton with a nod. ‘A beautiful city.’
He didn’t want to continue the conversation, but the American was full of bonhomie.
‘A wonderful city. I’m glad we managed to save it in the Second World War.’
‘Yes, we saved it,’ said Anton, nodding again.
‘Did you fight back then, Watchman?’
Anton realised Christian must be a really weak magician, not to see his real age, at least approximately.
‘No.’
‘I was too young too,’ the American sighed. ‘I dreamed of joining the army, but I was only fifteen. A pity, I could have got here fifty years earlier.’
Anton only just stopped himself from saying that Christian wouldn’t have had the chance, as American forces never reached Prague. But he immediately felt ashamed of his own thoughts.
2
The events in which Maxim was involved are described in ‘All for My Own Kind,’ Story Three of